


to ourselves, then

by Poose



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Gay Male Character, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Punishment, Queen Bee Jim Ross, Questionable Home Decor, Sadism, Shame Edward Little Power Hour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:47:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24443806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose
Summary: Jim Ross and Ned Little do some sadism in Jim's country house. Modern-ish AU, 1980s, completely unjustified.
Relationships: Lt Edward Little/James Clark Ross
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	to ourselves, then

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ktula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula/gifts).



> This came about entirely because of a throwaway scene in [ktula’s Closer kink AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23457298) where James Clark Ross demoes many many implements on a very willing Edward, which derailed my own ability to concentrate for the better part of at least a week. _That_ story has emotional beats, arcs, people being responsible, and well-developed backstories. 
> 
> This...does not. 
> 
> Takes place in the 1980s AU [gonfalonier dreamed up.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24226294) Sorry I forgot that Jim in that fic has a cat. Hopefully you can forgive me? 
> 
> Content warnings for homophobic language, mentions of HIV/AIDS, poor home decor choices, general casual sadism, allusions to age differences in relationships, ghastly sexualization of boarding school, and Edward Little having the shit kicked out of him (but like, in a fun way?)

Ned will acquiesce no matter what. Jim rarely bothers to enquire and instead takes it for granted that he’s game. Lots of reasons like to go without. One can always find a fairy at the bottom of the garden, if the garden is London. They swarm there like ships’ rats these days. Preferable to them being broken in elsewhere, in some godforsaken backwater, bringing their ghastly notions from Cardiff, Hull, Manchester along with. 

Dreadful creatures. 

Give him a new boy, a boy with big dreams who manages to be coy without affectation, the way modern poofters get when they’ve been to university. Pliable, if you please, but not stretched out. Get them while they’re slippery fresh, before Mykonos and nitrite crease them into papery dullness. 

Midweek is the best time to go to the countryside, the traffic light without the daytrippers and guided coach tours clogging up the A40. He leaves his flat with its white walls and white sofa, the fleece from the family Valais strewn across the parquet that retains, to his annoyance, a yellowed tinge despite extensive, thorough cleaning, and which he tells James about in more detail than he clearly wishes to hear — _no, Francis isn’t home, yes, he’ll make sure he gets the message_ — before leaving the dog in the care of her other owners. Let her piss on _their_ rugs for a change. 

That task accomplished, he gets back into the driver’s seat and switches on Radio 1. Slow going until he reaches the services at Beaconsfield but from there he can press a button to lower a window, step on the pedal and leave the city smoke far behind. His hair whips loose into his face and though rain begins to spatter the windscreen, he leaves the window open. 

He pulls up to the house, tyres sending up a shower of pea gravel as he cuts the wheel hard to the left to avoid the peony plant that’s sagging over into the drive. His shoes crunch as he retrieves his brown leather weekender bag from the boot. 

This first day is for himself. Only himself. Jim dons the clothes people, normal people, wear and tops them with a beige trenchcoat, mind-numbing in its ubiquity. An umbrella in one hand, his father’s heirloom walking stick in the other, he rambles across the adjoining properties and into fields of green. 

His legs ache from the exertion. The last few miles are a struggle, the hems of his trousers growing heavy and sodden with wet. Good for the lungs, though, as well as the mind. Health at any cost. He unlocks the front door just as the sun is setting, tosses his keys into the silver bowl on the console table, and fixes a gin and tonic to accompany him to his bath. 

Dawn streams in, cold and grey, from the skylights in the great room. He has been going at it rather hard of late. Must have needed the sleep. He sighs skyward, at the hooks screwed into the heavy oak ceiling beams and drags himself to the bedroom, but not before leaving message on Ned’s answerphone at an hour so shockingly early it could pass for late. 

_Come round tonight if you like. Any time after eight. I’m at the house._

A few more hours fitful rest and he rouses himself once more. He flips through a magazine, contemplates eating, has a Bloody Mary instead. Tomato juice has vitamins. Besides, he’s not really at risk. You have to fuck, they say, to be at risk. Or so he's heard. 

Another day passes. Walk, bath, booze, rest. Boredom. 

The clock’s tick is audible over the patter of gentle rain. There’s a knock at the door. Jim startles from his unintended drowse. A fat drop of gin escapes its glass and lands on the arm of the Chesterfield. _Damn_ he says, shaking out his handkerchief and mopping at the wet spot. _Damn damn damn._ The chair had been delivered wrapped in brown paper, a simple note in Ann’s perfect copperplate tacked to the outside. _Happy birthday, old thing_ it read. _I’ll beg you not tell me how you christen it. A xx_

Hideous fabric absolutely covered in seagulls. He adored it; _her_. Under other circumstances it would have been their china pattern, had Jim not been born bent. A disappointment in this as in a thousand other things. Probably for the best that his own father hadn’t lived long enough to see the bloodline die out.

His mum, the poor dear, still held onto hope. Had done even on the day of Ann’s wedding, looking expectantly over at Jim as if he’d stand to object when the appropriate moment came in the ceremony. As if he was simply waiting on deck with an unrequited declaration, and all that came before was simply a long con meant to extract the maximum embarrassment from her, keep her from joining the ranks of women who transferred their aspirations, their long-deferred joys to their grandchildren, when their own offspring did fuck-all but disappoint. 

_Coming_ he shouts, leaving the soiled handkerchief behind and taking the glass along with. 

Ned’s pretty scowl can be felt from the other side of the door. Jim pulls it to and leans against the jamb, one arm resting high above his head. 

_On your own?_ Jim waits for Ned to step into the hallway and pokes his head through once more for good measure. A chap can’t be too careful. For a moment he wonders if one of those wretched creatures has followed him up the Westway and has been lying in wait to accost him. There have been plenty over the last few years. Billy, David, Robert, Thomas, _other_ Thomas, and sweet, stupid George. 

He glances him over, craning his head to make certain he hasn’t come with an entourage either. Why, every faggot this side of Brighton would give their left tit to accompany sweet, dull Ned to this den of infamy, if not to take part then at least to have the story tucked up in their back pocket. Say they’ve been there. It’s all fucking currency, in the end. 

Jim matches Ned’s long strides, outpaces him to the great room but can’t stop him reaching the drinks cabinet first. There’s ice in the bucket and the Hill’s absinthe hasn’t been emptied completely. Damn. Should have hidden it. 

He picks up the bottle, shoots a quizzical look at the green deco label, then looks over at Jim in exactly the same manner. 

_This all right?_ he asks in a soft, scratchy voice. _Were you saving it?_

He’ll have to put in a call to one of Uncle John’s importer friends. A pain to come by, but fabulous all the same. Maybe he’ll tag along on the boat run this time. It would give him something to _do_ , at least. 

_Help yourself_ he waves a benevolent hand in Ned’s direction before leaning into his space to top up his own, causing Ned to step away from the drinks cabinet. The motion is deference, politeness itself. Easy to forget that he’s got beautiful manners, when he can hardly be arsed to use them. Jim throws a glance over his shoulder. As soon as their eyes meet Jim is suddenly hideously, exhaustingly bored. 

Christ. This was a mistake. 

They sit for a while. Long enough to make it seem social. 

Jim wonders if he can plead off with a headache. Run another bath and send him packing. Read a book, drink himself into oblivion. But it’s well past nightfall. And the roads, as Ned has tediously mentioned more than once during their conversation, are quite wet. 

He sighs, stands, passes a hand through his hair. Ned gets up, too. Dreadfully obedient. Sickeningly so. Jim does wish the poor dear could find someone suitable. Someone, it should go without saying, who isn’t him. First thing, the chap is far too old. Keeps himself trim, at least, Jim notes with approval as he unbuttons the upper half of his shirt and pulls it, along with the t-shirt beneath, up over his head. The movement musses his hair.

He holds the shirts in front of him, fingers tensing against their fabric. Poor lamb. He really is quite sweet. 

Jim had been caned by three different masters, himself, and had taken from each the certain revelation that only one in three had an arm worth swinging. A solid lesson to learn, way back in the lower fifth, when he had been old enough to understand what, precisely, that meant. 

Ned had joined Stowe in the sixth form. Somewhere minor prior to that, Jim forgets exactly where, and while his behaviour never merited a single punishment — beyond the occasional rap on the knuckles, because Jim would have known, would have finagled a way to be in the know, if there had been any more to it— it meant they had a shared comprehension about the way things were meant to be done.

 _Set those aside_ Jim says. Ned chucks the shirts in the direction of the sofa, reddens when the balled-up weight of the sleeves, combined with a weak underhand, lands them near the floor. He bends down to straighten them, stands, straightens himself. 

Jim narrows his eyes in scrutiny. Ned’s looking well enough, if you go in for that sort of thing, which Jim generally does not. Too dark, too hairy, too old. He has suggested, here and there, when appropriate, that he wax above his collarbones, tweeze between his eyebrows, wear denims that draw attention rather than shunning it — only Ned, Jim has finally twigged, would prefer to die than be noticed. 

Ned is sullen beyond measure yet his breeding will not permit him to reveal anything but poise, even when he's gasping into his upper arm, pale marks striping his back and sides. Jim itches to lash him to a board and issue an open invitation to every name inked in his Rolodex. Christ. What a party centerpiece that would be. 

_Damned shame_ he murmurs to himself before walking over to the other cabinet. Ned turns, his hands clasped loosely in front of himself. He’s utterly quiet, which Jim can appreciate. A fellow can ruminate, think on matters when it’s quiet. 

In certain circles it is polite to ask what one’s partner is after. Have they sore spots to avoid, or if they prefer, lean into? Would they like it to snap, sting, or land heavy like a barn door left ajar, blown shut with a gale force wind? When would they stop? How would they stop? 

A bloody boring business, to Jim’s mind. The chap was here, wasn’t he? 

_Would you like a moment?_ Jim asks, casual as you like. 

_I’m all right_ Ned says in reply with utmost certainty. It isn’t becoming, at his age, to be gagging for it so clearly. Jim’ll have to remind him about that later. 

The dullness lifts like an eyebrow. For a split second, Jim’s head clears. They both know how this is supposed to go. It’s one thing to go marauding around in nightclubs playacting in leather drag, wretched in its own way. But if that’s what he has to do? Jim’ll do it. 

With Ned Jim doesn’t have to pretend to be nice, like he does with the pliable boys he brings along to Greece — and that reminds him, he’ll need to call his travel agent before they close at the weekend, sort the flights, then the ferry, and the villa — no honeyed words and tickles to make Ned sweet — and at no point is he required to get his own kit off. It's positively Roman, if you think about it. Combative. Bend over or do the bending. Get on your knees if you want it to be over more quickly, though you might then be required to suffer the indignity of reciprocation. 

Jim’s tackle works fine. He simply can’t bring himself to care. 

Ned, though. He has seen him out there. How he goes about his business when there’s a party. He’s seen that he isn’t wild about the games, the pretence, and how when they get to the part of the evening when it’s fuck or be fucked — and Jesus, why not, let people fuck, what was it to him, if that was what it took for them to forget they were all being hunted by this miserable wastrel blackguard tosspot of a disease, then fucking let the whole world fuck, hell, he’d gather the kindling, light the bonfire and throw kerosene onto the effigies — his mask slips to reveal the misery beneath. 

Once he'd tried him on for size. In his circles you can’t spit without hitting a man you've had, although they can’t spit anymore, come to think of it. Christ, you can't do anything these days. Can’t spit, can’t kiss, can’t wank, can’t fuck, can’t suck, can’t come. 

Stupid boys, your Davids and your Georges. Turn the whole mess into a sodding ordeal. Unrelentingly goddamned loud. Curious. They’ve got fucking _questions_. What he wouldn’t give for a printed pamphlet that they could look over beforehand. 

Ned. Well. He was the right sort of person, wasn't he? 

_Come home with me_ Jim had said, when they'd both been at the same Old Stoics Chelsea drinks do a few years back. Ned had shaken his hand, firm, and said _good to see you again, mate_ then lowered his eyes to the floor, looked back up again. How crass. How obvious. How utterly delicious. 

Ned fetched his coat without pause, made himself decent, followed Jim into the waiting taxi. 

The town flat has a small cabinet, the white rug, the sofa, in the front room. Ned had made no overtures at oral congress, and Jim had gratefully returned the lack of favour. 

_Did you ever get in trouble_ he had asked, that first time in his flat. _Back at school?_

 _I can hardly remember is_ what Ned had said and the sincerity with which he's told him, told _Jim fucking Ross_ of all people, absolutely rent him in two. Still does. Even though he's not Jim's type. 

He ties him, hooks him. His eye twitches once he's strung up. It is lovely, when it all comes together. 

_Legs_ he says, with a gentle nudge of his toe. Ned leans himself forward, takes his weight forward on his feet, and widens his stride until Jim clucks his approval. 

Jim circles around to check him from the front. With the back of his hand he taps beneath Edward’s chin until it's just level with the floor. It’s fine with Jim if he stays looking down. 

Down and _away_ , though. That won’t serve. 

_Chin up, darling_ he says, and squints at how he squirms. They can be honest with one another, alone, here, Ned strung up like a saddle of venison awaiting the spit. God, what a pleasant thought. He'll have to remember that. 

_Edward?_

_I’m here, Jim_ he responds. With them he wishes only to be himself. Jim. Not a schoolmaster, nor captain of a great ship with a fondness for the lash. Simply open to the pain that already exists in the universe. He himself is merely a conduit for hurt. 

Edward’s back stripes white and pink from the cane. Now, if he were to play at headmaster, he would start with that. And so he does. 

The ceiling creaks but the hook, of course, holds. These beams have likely seen far worse, in their days. 

Short leather wrapped round a bit of whalebone comes next. If he wanted to act like a priest at a violent old seminary, that would be the one to use. Catholics have always been so damned creative. A real sense of ceremony about the business. 

Jim uses it. 

Ned's back is warm to the touch. Jim splays a hand over it, right in the middle. 

_Shall we continue?_ As if the man has it in him to refuse.

 _I can take harder_ he says in the direction of Jim's shoes. 

Jim looks him over. Those tears tell a different tale. 

_It will hurt_ Jim reminds him. Ned fights to not look away, and if Jim were another kind of man, a kinder kind of one, then he might notice this effort and reward it with some small praise. A gentle word, an affection. 

_Good he_ says from between gritted teeth. _Let it_. 

_Remarkable_ Jim squeezes his bare shoulder. He really is darling. 

He keeps at it. Same instrument, changing up the stroke when his damned tennis elbow begins to make the motion too painful. He can’t very well stop now for Nurofen and an ice pack, but switches to his non-dominant hand to give himself a bit of reprieve, and snaps out at the reddened, welting bits of Edward’s bare back. 

Edward writhes against his ties. From deep in his chest erupts a dark, pained cry. Would he could bottle that sound. Pin it like a butterfly in a specimen jar. 

_Gracious_ Jim says stepping back to admire his work. That will hurt a pretty penny on the drive back tomorrow. A moment, then, for Jim to mop his brow and down what’s left of his gin and ice-melt. Ned has been pulling at the bindings each time a stroke lands, and his face is burning hot when Jim touches it. 

_Poor thing_ he says and holds the wet glass up to Ned’s flushed cheek. _Are you quite miserable?_

He glowers. Face blotchy, eyes full. Jim chuckles, sets the drink aside. Ned winces when he touches his back, twitches as if tickled when Jim wipes his damp hands down his bare sides. He retrieves the leather scourge from where it hangs and considers it, turning it over ostentatiously in his hands. 

Ned whimpers through his crooked teeth. 

_Pathetic_ Jim says, and touches the end of it to his mouth to stop the noise. Ned writhes again, twisting his muscles into knots as hard and fast as the ones that hold him. 

He'll stay the night when Jim is through with him. Clean himself up, tuck himself into the smaller of the two spare bedrooms. Tomorrow, too early, Edward will need to be back in the office for a normal start. It would be a kindness to wait until the weekend for them to carry on like this. But one must go out, on the weekends, unless there is a party planned, and then one stays in and oversees the festivities. 

The cabinet here holds only a few more things than the one in town. Jim prefers to curate rather than collect. An instrument is merely a conduit, after all. And there are a few things he'd like to make use of before the blood surfaces in earnest. 


End file.
